Leave Before I Run Away
by jenny jar
Summary: Miranda and Andrea meet again. Again. Sequel to Five Encounters. MirAndy
1. Once

**Disclaimer**Whatever you can recognize is not mine.

**Warning:** English is neither my first, nor my second language. Proceed at your own risk.

**LEAVE BEFORE I RUN AWAY**

**Once.**

The lunch meeting went better than she expected, and Miranda allowed herself to take a break on the short drive back to the office. As Roy slowly made his way in the heavy midday traffic, she relaxed, gazing out the window. A small smile playing on her lips, she thought about the upcoming trip to Paris, and the following vacation with the girls, and this new young designer she was going to make famous.

The car made a turn and continued its stop-and-go crawl along the street, squeezed between the inevitable New York taxicabs. After yet another halt Roy carefully glanced at her in the rear view mirror. Most probably he expected her usual cutting remark about the lack of movement. But strangely, just then the certainty of delay in her afternoon schedule did not bother Miranda. Instead, she felt content letting her gaze travel between the people hurrying up and down the street – one never knew where the inspiration for the next great spread or an interesting editorial would come from. And New York streets could offer a hell of an inspiration for those who understand how to find it.

For instance, those two girls, who were walking on the sidewalk, just ahead of the car. Miranda couldn't see their faces, since, despite Roy's best effort, the car still moved slower than the walking speed. And yet, seeing them only from the back, gave a nudge to her imagination. Take the taller girl with a very short dark hair ("should tell Nigel to use more models with boyish cuts for the summer issue"). Her gray trench coat was livened up by a light blue scarf ("hmm, no, not blue, should be--uh--green. Yes, talk to someone at Hermes—"). The girl had very nice Manolo's boots on. Although they were at least a couple of seasons as out of style, in combination with a pair of vintage jeans, they created a chic look, which didn't need the trendiest pieces ("there is this little shop in the Village, may be Jocelyn should take a look there"). The other girl--. Well, back to the first one. The messenger bag. No, it was just plain wrong. What if--.

As Miranda thought about the bag, the girls turned to the side street and quickly disappeared around the corner. "Make a right," she threw a bit hastily to Roy.

The driver, even if he was baffled by the request, didn't show it, but obediently pulled to the right at the intersection and, when the light changed to green, made the turn. When he almost immediately had to stop the car to let the pedestrians cross the street, Miranda leaned closer to the window, searching for the girls.

Ah, there they were. Good. So, the messenger bag. It had to go. Instead--well, how about a Luis Vitton's Biker bag? Hmm. Miranda considered it for a moment. It was tricky to make a decision like that without actually seeing a person's face.

As if answering Miranda's tacit wish, the girls stopped, and the taller one, apparently intending to hail a cab, stepped to the curb and turn to face the oncoming traffic.

For a moment Miranda forgot to breath. Oh. God.

Oh god. No.

No. It couldn't be. Absolutely impossible. Miranda swallowed hard. Bloody hell, the tall girl - the gray trench coat, the Manolo's boots, the short haircut, and all - was no other than the blasted Andrea Sachs.

Miranda frowned and pursued her lips. She could do it. She could definitely do it. She swallowed again and grabbed a folder from her bag. Well, so, the new belts should go--. Unseeing, Miranda was staring at the open page, as the car jolted into motion.

"Belts--" she murmured, furring her eyebrow, "of course--well--."

Meanwhile, the car slowly glided by Andrea and her friend, and even with her head bent down, Miranda couldn't help, but see a hem of gray trench coat and a pair denim-covered knees.

She let out a breath, she didn't know she was holding, only when she heard Roy's question, "Where would you like to go now, Ms. Priestly?"

Right.

Miranda snapped the folder shut and bit, "To the office, of course."

She jerked her cell phone out of her purse. "Anna, I want the outfits for the Spring cover ready in the Closet by four. Get me a conference call with Donatella early tomorrow morning. Tell Nigel--."

As she was firing her instructions, Miranda felt a pure white rage boiling inside her, ready to come out. So, she lowered her voice, infusing it with just enough menace to make sure that on the other end of the line her assistant understood – no mistakes would be tolerated today. None. And if someone would cry or feel like quitting Runway this afternoon – well, so be it.


	2. Twice

**Twice.**

There was something about classical opera that strangely resonated with Miranda. As much as she despised the predictability and tediousness in fashion, the reliable, readily recognized music and plot of the operas soothed her. And of course, it was nice to relax and enjoy the show sitting next to a handsome man, her date for the evening.

A certain Cynthia Michaels, who thought herself a natural born matchmaker, introduced David and she at one of the benefit diners. Miranda was pleasantly surprised to find a poised personality coupled with wide range of interest to go with an attractive exterior. And so she let David accompany her to the next charitable event, the fact that made Cynthia Michael's year, when she found out about it.

This was, then, their second date, but Miranda was beginning to seriously consider breaking her third date rule and inviting him to her house tonight. Conveniently, the twins were out for the weekend with their father. So--.

"I believe he is very good," David whispered, leaning closer to her. Miranda looked at him and bowed her head slightly in agreement. Yes, the tenor (god, who could pronounce those long Russian names), who sang Ghermann, seemed, in fact, better than Placido Domingo, she heard several years ago. On the other hand, back then she was going through a bitter divorce and might not had been able to appreciate fully all the fine points of the performance.

Of course, Miranda didn't share this piece of information with David. Instead, during the first intermission they had a lovely discussion on how this particular staging of "The Queen of Spades" benefited from having most of the main characters sang by Russian performers. Then, they talked about transferability of the operas to other cultures, and how art, in general, transcended language, traditions, and time barriers.

Surprised, Miranda caught herself smiling, as she listened to David. Not very often one would find an investment banker, who could talk about something other than the important deal they were always in the middle of, or their expensive cars and even more expensive weekend getaways, or the amount of money they spent on decorating their last apartment. And amazingly, from the moment David picked her up for a pre-theater dinner, he never excused himself to make a phone call or check his voice or e-mail box. By the end of the first intermission Miranda knew that they would be having drinks at her house after the show.

During the second intermission they went outside. The evening was unusually warm for the late October, and the cashmere wrap, pulled tightly around her shoulders, sufficed.

"Shall we return?" still asked David, glancing uncertainly at her little black dress.

"No, it is nice here," she reassured him. Even if she were cold, Miranda would rather stay outside - one stroll in the foyer and she had enough of watching hordes of people, who never learned that lounging on the sofa and going to the opera required two different sets of attire. At least in the dim light of the Plaza in front of the Opera House, without her glasses, Miranda could always attribute the obvious disgrace to her poor vision.

After a brief hesitation David nodded and offered her a hand.

They walked around the Plaza, to the State Theater, then to the Fisher Hall. For a while they stood at the fountain. The conversation eventually moved from arts to their children, and David, whose son was already in college, listened graciously as she talked about ballet and piano lessons, and the difficulty of finding a good language tutor.

When the chime signaled the end of the intermission, Miranda thought she wouldn't mind remaining as they were, instead of going back. But it would be improper, wouldn't it?

They were nearing the entrance doors, when a laughing young couple, both tall, with dark short hair, ran passed them into the theater. A light blue scarf was wrapped around the girl's neck. Miranda missed a step.

"All right?" asked David, seizing her elbow.

"Yes, quite." Miranda smiled. She straightened her shoulders and continued walking as if nothing happened.

"Well, nothing did happen," reassured herself Miranda, when David and she walked in, and she discreetly scanned the foyer. She didn't even flinch when she saw the familiar couple hurrying up the stairs.

Miranda slowly inhaled and exhaled through the nose. It might not--. She swallowed hard. It might not have even been her. Why should it be her? In almost twelve months the girl worked for Runway, Miranda never heard her so much as mention opera.

So--.

So.

Miranda glanced up the stairs, where the couple went. Definitely not her. Weren't New York full of tall girls with a short dark hair, who wore light blue scarves?

"Shall we?" asked David, nodding toward the Orchestra entrance.

Miranda, her gaze shifting quickly from the stairs, smiled to him. "Of course."

All through Act lll she felt unexpectedly edgy. She couldn't concentrate on Ghermann and his descend into madness. As she watched him throwing his life and love away for the sake of the illusive card winning, Miranda--. No she didn't fidget. She just glanced back. Once...

The next morning Miranda spent extra ten minutes in her bed. That was all the luxury she could afford, considering it was her last weekend before the Paris trip. A small smile playing on her lips, she thought about David, and the Russian tenor, and the unexpectedly warm October evenings.

Her date last night was very good. Probably, the best one she had in a very long time. And the sex was lovely, if uninspired. Just the way she liked it. Who needed the fireworks in the bedroom, if one had to function through twelve-hour workdays of dealing with complete idiots, swollen egos, and outrageous deadlines? Besides, from what she understood, fireworks never lasted. And they usually ended in busts that were unpleasant and disruptive for everyone involved.

Miranda tousled her hair and got up. She went to the desk to check her schedule on the laptop. Taping lightly her chin with a finger, she considered it for a moment, and then quickly switched several items around, until she managed to cut out a two-hour window for lunch meeting with David. She smiled as she e-mailed the altered schedule to her assistants. Right. This was right. Obsessions, dramas should be left for the operas. Miranda sneered as she closed the laptop - light blue scarf indeed…

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**A/N** Thank you all for reading and reviewing.


	3. Trice

**Trice.**

That afternoon the girls had begged her to accompany them to the Metropolitan museum. They were writing a report on history of sculpture and needed her input. In all honesty, Miranda thought that their current au pair, fresh from Sorbonne with her degree in arts, would do. Besides, she didn't have much time to spare before the long vacation. But the girls insisted that it wasn't going to take more than an hour, and she gave in.

Blissfully, the holiday season hadn't really started yet, and the museum still looked like a museum and didn't resemble the Grand Central in a rush hour. Not that Miranda herself had been to the Grand Central in the last fifteen years, but people talked.

The girls dragged her through the ancient Greek and Roman halls, asking all kind of questions about statues: their poses, clothing (or lack of it), facial expressions, and so on and so forth. Unaware, Miranda became more and more involved and began asking questions of her own, challenging her daughters' answers and listening carefully to the their reasoning.

Somewhere, between ninth and tenth statue, Miranda realized she was really enjoying this outing with the girls. They should do it more often. They should. Why didn't they? Wasn't it interesting, when on a wimp they stopped by the Frick collection a couple of months ago? Or roamed the little gallery they found in the summer on the back streets of Edinburgh? Or went to that famous exhibition in the Guggenheim last January? Or--. Miranda didn't have time to think of anything else, or rather think at all, before she turned around and glanced behind her.

Well.

Of course, there was no Andrea Sachs anywhere in the vicinity. And why should she be here at all? Just because the bloody girl suddenly took a habit of appearing all over the place? Damn! And only recently Miranda noticed with a relief that she could bear a thought of Andrea without getting the feeling of aching emptiness in her chest. Sometimes. When she concentrated hard enough. But everything turned upside down, when she saw the girl on the street – the light blue scarf, the ugly messenger bag, the short haircut--.

"Mom, is everything all right?" That was Cassidy, but they both were looking at her with concern.

"Of course," she answered airy, before realizing that not only she turned around in the middle of her own question to her daughters, she didn't finish it. Bloody hell! Miranda cleared her throat and smiled at the girls. After a brief hesitation, Cassidy nodded, and Caroline followed the suite. To prevent any further unwanted inquiries, Miranda motioned them to the next statue. "So, who could tell me--."

Everything seemed to go smoothly afterwards, but as the three of them were walking out of the museum, Cassidy asked quietly, "Is someone following us?"

Miranda stopped and looked at her. "Pardon?"

"Are we going to get a bodyguard?" fired out Caroline in eager anticipation.

"A what?" Miranda furrowed her brow.

"A bodyguard, like that girl from ninth grade had. You knew her parents – Count and Countess of what's-the-name, remember?" Caroline was practically dancing on the spot. "They moved to Italy last year."

"Could you, perhaps, explain to me in a calm, lady-like manner, why we are talking about those people?" Miranda asked softly.

With a glance Cassidy silenced her sister. "Mom, we've noticed," she started in Caroline's place, "that for that last half an hour you kept on, um, turning and looking around. Hence, we thought that you, maybe, um, have reasons to be concerned, um, that someone could follow us. You."

For a moment Miranda was speechless. Then, she pursed her lips and uttered in a cold, almost office-like tone, "I do hope you can find ways of putting your wild imagination to better use than this."

Girls exchanged quick glances, but didn't say anything.

As she was stomping down the stairs, her daughters in tow, Miranda decided that she simply needed a vacation.

"A long vacation away from this town," she amended, getting into her Mercedes. She refused to look out the window, as the car began moving.

"A long vacation and more time with David," Miranda finalized as she dropped the girls at the townhouse.

It was a good thing, then, they were actually leaving for St. Marteen next week, and David was to stay with them there for at least one weekend…

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**A/N** Thank you all for reading and reviewing.


	4. And there we go again

**And there we go again.**

As much as Miranda enjoyed her vacation, she was glad to be back at work. She always made sure to stay on top of things, when she was away, but no amount of phone calls or e-mails could substitute real face-to-face interactions, which jolted people around her into a higher gear. And when one was in a business of creating The Fashion Magazine (not some tasteless, pointless rag with glossy pictures), it was imperative to have the staff that was not only competent and efficient, but fast too.

However, instead of ensuring just that, Miranda was stuck here, at the Women's Press Club annual luncheon, pretending to sip the dreadful champagne and mingle among numerous attendees, who seemed to believe that journalism was about dressing badly and discussing loudly matters they understood nothing about.

Every year Miranda managed to wiggle out of this torture, but this time around Irv was adamant – she was to receive an award, it was a good exposure, she needed to make a speech… In short, here she was, gritting her teeth and swearing that if anyone dared to ask her one more time for her opinion on an education reform, she'd make certain that unfortunate never worked in New York again.

And then it seemed like something shifted in the air. Miranda's gaze dashed around the room until it tripped over a girl that paused as she walked out of the elevator. Before the girl, who appeared to look for someone, turned so that Miranda could actually see her face, the champagne flute shook slightly in Miranda's hand, and she knew that the girl at the elevator was no other than the blasted Andrea Sachs.

This time there was no light blue scarf or vintage jeans, but a smart pin-stripped pantsuit and a white collared shirt. Professional. Reserved. Beautiful.

Miranda swore inwardly and slammed her glass on the tray of a passing waiter. Then she swore again.

Meanwhile a fat, sloppily dressed, middle-aged woman rushed to Andrea with a big smile and even bigger hug. As the girl smiled warmly in response, Miranda swallowed hard and swore yet again. Then, the woman guided Andrea away from the elevator, and the sight of the fat, unmanicured fingers on the slender pin-stripped back made Miranda regret the decision to give away her champagne – her own fingers rolled into tight fists, and she caught herself getting ready to stomp to that fat cow and punched her in the fat, unpowdered face.

Bloody hell! Miranda forced herself to look away, but only a few short moments later her defiant gaze was back on the pair. Now they stood about half way across the hall, in a group of women, engrossed in an animated discussion. Miranda swore once more and inhaled shakily. She didn't quite manage to exhale as Andrea turned and looked straight at her.

The sounds and sights of the room around her died down, while, mesmerized, she stared into the girl's dark eyes. Later, so much later, Miranda finally mustered half a decent frown and looked away. And exhaled.

Oh. Hell.

For the next fifteen minutes Miranda "worked" the room. She smiled, she talked, she shook hands. She even took a sip of the dreadful champagne. And she didn't look at the girl, damn her, once. No, she did not. Not a glance, not a peek, not a glimpse, damn the bloody girl to the deepest hell!

At last everyone was invited to the banquet hall. Miranda, her table the closest to the podium, sat so that her back was to the rest of the room. But only one speech and a salad later she was up and moving to the exit.

On the way out she easily spotted Andrea. The girl seemed to be fully engaged in a conversation with the fat woman sitting next to her, same one that greeted her at the elevator. However, as Miranda was passing their table, the girl raised her head and looked directly at her. With a quick, angry move of the eyes Miranda, her face a perfect mask of indifference, ordered the girl to follow her.

Out of the banquet hall Miranda stopped and took a deep breath. Then, she took out her cell phone, stared at it for a while as it shook in her hand, and put it back into the purse. Bloody hell, what was she doing--.

"Miranda?"

She took another deep breath and slowly turned around. "Why are you here?" She asked quietly.

The girl smiled tentatively. "Hello, Miranda. How are you?"

"Why. Are. You. Here?" Miranda repeated, carefully enunciating every word.

The smile faded. "I--I am on the invitee list."

"Impossible," Miranda spat. "You are a junior--something--."

The girl flinched, but quickly recovered. "Not any more." The smile was gone.

Miranda, suddenly feeling dejected with the disappearance of the smile, could think only of a cold, "indeed?"

"Um," the girl was looking at her intently as if trying to understand if "indeed" was a real question. Then, she began with hesitation, "Last summer Jennifer, um, Jennifer Cosinsky offered me a position in her department. So, now I--."

"Still, you shouldn't be here," Miranda interrupted, hoping to shorten this conversation. As it was she was struggling not to stare at the girl's enthralling lips, or her warm, brown eyes, or, damn it, simply not to stare.

The girl frowned and lifted her chin slightly. "Well, Jennifer," she waived her hand in the direction of the banquet hall, so that Miranda instantly realized that the fat cow, who hung around Andrea, was the said Jennifer, the girl's boss, "thought that it would be an interesting experience for me, and she got me an invitation--."

"She did, didn't she?" hissed Miranda, before she had a chance to stop herself.

"Yes." Andrea answered with a slight shrug, but then, as she looked closer at Miranda, her eyes widened. "Oh, no, Miranda. It's not--," she shook her head. "There is nothing. No."

Cursing herself for the lack of self-control, Miranda sneered. Did it matter to her whom the girl was sleeping with? Absolutely not. She could go and sleep with anyone she wanted to. Even if it was her middle-aged boss, who happened to be a fat cow with no fashion sense--. Bloody hell. "You have to leave."

"Leave?" Andrea furred her brow.

"Yes, leave." Miranda didn't plan to raise her voice, and yet, here she was, not far away from shouting. Either that, or she would grab the girl and--

Andrea's face hardened. "You want me to leave the luncheon?"

"Yes. I want you to leave this luncheon." Forget self-control, Miranda was barely hanging to her sanity. "Leave this hotel. Leave this town. Go!"

"Is that what Michelle did?" the girl asked softly.

The air caught in Miranda's throat, and for a moment she couldn't breath. But the next moment she made a step forward, ready to strike, to retaliate. "You--you--."

The girl hastily stepped back, glancing over Miranda's shoulder. Miranda followed her gaze. There were several waiters cleaning up the hall after the pre-luncheon reception. They seemed to pay no attention to Andrea and she, but even in her current unhinged state of mind Miranda knew the danger, when she saw one.

Andrea, apparently, knew it too. "There," she pointed at the doors under "Exit to Stair" sign.

Miranda glanced at the waiters, then at the girl, and nodded stiffly.

The first words Andrea uttered, when the doors closed, leaving the two of them alone on the stairs landing, were, "I am sorry."

Miranda, who managed to pull herself together during the brief respite in the conversation, regarded the girl silently.

"About Michelle." Andrea looked uncomfortable under Miranda's stare, but refused to back off. "I shouldn't have mentioned--um--her leaving--."

Miranda raised a hand to stop her. "Her leaving was a right thing to do."

Then it was Andrea's turn to regard Miranda. At last she squared her shoulders and said firmly, "It doesn't have to be this way."

Miranda arched a brow. "It doesn't?" She sneered as she advanced on the girl. "How do you think it should be? Like this?" Her hand shot out and seized the girl's chin.

Miranda didn't actually mean to stroke Andrea's face. Or may be she did, she couldn't say just then. The initial contact sent sparks through her, and Miranda gasped softly, suddenly fully aware of the fact that she was on her way to hell, but the hell with it. Watching her own fingers caress the silken skin of the girl's cheek, slide further, burying into the short, soft hair, Miranda was lost, all the reason and sense abandoned.

On the back of her mind she knew that there was something she needed from this girl. But, surely, whatever that something was it could not be more important than the tantalizing sensation the mere touch was giving her.

Meanwhile, Andrea's eyelids fluttered closed, and she was barely breathing, leaning into Miranda's caress. The proud expression of her face of just moments ago shifted and morphed into a different one, the one that told Miranda that no matter what she ask of Andrea just then, the girl would do it. Not because she, Miranda, was her boss, or an influential editor of an important magazine, or a person, who could make or ruin careers at will, but because--. Miranda let out breath, she didn't notice she was holding, and half smirked half smiled - she had never felt more powerful in her entire life.

But then the girl's eyes fluttered open, and she whispered, "Miranda." And just like that, with the three short syllables of her own name, Miranda was stripped of any vestiges of her power. Her hand, splayed in the girl's hair, froze, as she looked, stunned, at Andrea's open face, her warm dark eyes. It was impossible, and yet Miranda knew then - no matter what the girl would ask of her, she would do it.

Terrified, she snatched her hand and stepped away. "Leave, please. Go." Please.

The girl, as if slowly coming back to reality, deeply inhaled and exhaled. "All right," she finally nodded, "I'll go this time." She looked Miranda in the eye. "But, Miranda--."

"Yes, I'll--I'll think of something," Miranda promised. Just go. Please.

"It _was_ nice to see you." With the sad smile Andrea turned and headed down the stairs.

Miranda waited until the clacking of the heels stopped several floors below. She listened to the sound of the door opened and closed. Then, she took the powder compact case out and, in the little mirror, stared at her own shocked eyes, before whispering, "Hell--."

At last she frowned, snapped the case closed, and threw it back into her purse. Whether she was in hell or not, she still owed Irv the Women's Press Club's speech. Miranda straightened her jacket, pursed her lips, and went back to the banquet hall.

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**A/N** Thank you all for reading and reviewing.


	5. In the Absence of Cloud Nine part 1

**In the Absence of Cloud Nine (part 1).**

Miranda stopped the car near a newsstand and asked Roy to get her few publications, among which was The Mirror. It was raining, and, when the stack of newspapers was placed on the seat next to her, the paper was damp and cold. With distaste Miranda eyed The New York Post on top of the stack and reached out to search for The Mirror.

She halted her hand midway. No. She inhaled and exhaled. No. Miranda slowly returned the hand to her lap - the cheap wet dye would probably stain her fingers anyway.

When Miranda got into the car at the end of the day, the stack of newspapers was still there. The paper wasn't damp any longer. Nevertheless, she glared at it and turned away.

As Miranda was walking up the stairs to her townhouse, she heard, "Excuse me, Ms. Priestly." She stopped and looked back, frowning. "Where do you want these, Ms. Priestly?" Roy was holding the blasted newspapers stack.

"You can have them." Miranda sneered and continued on her way.

It took her longer than usual to open the door, because for some reason the key just wouldn't fit into a keyhole. Once inside, she stood in the dark hallway carefully inhaling and exhaling until the persistent ringing of the cell phone jerked her into motion.

"Yes," she snapped into the phone as she went pacing. Her second assistant (very likely soon to be a former second assistant) called say that a photographer had refused to talk to her. "I am so sorry, Miranda, but he just keep hanging up on me. I tried several times, and I said--."

Miranda had enough. "Anna," whatever the girl's name was didn't matter then, seeing as she was about to get fired, "what time is it in London now?"

On the other end of the line the girl made a choking sound. "He is in London? But you asked--."

Miranda closed the phone and hissed, "Idiot." She opened it again and jammed a speed dial number. "Anna, you need to contact Salvatore in London and tell him about the change of schedule."

Her first assistant stuttered, "But Elizabeth is--."

Ah, the idiot's name was Elizabeth. "--fired."

"Right."

At least this one knew when to keep her mouth shut. "Tell her not to bother to show up at the office in the morning. And when you talk to Salvatore, apologize for her rudeness." Miranda finally turned on the lights in the hallway, put her purse down, and took of her coat. "And Anna."

"Yes, Miranda."

"I expect you to find a second assistant who _can_ learn how to do her job. That's all."

Miranda closed the phone and looked at her reflection on the mirror with a grim sense of accomplishment. The feeling was short-lived, though, as moments later the realization struck her – it was the second second assistant she fired in as many months.

Well, the girl _was_ an idiot. But most of them were, and yet she usually would give them more time than that to prove otherwise. Besides, now that she thought about it, she might not have mentioned the fact that Salvatore was in London to-- whatever her name was.

Miranda walked away from the mirror.

Well.

Well.

Several strolls up and down the hallway later Miranda was back in front of the mirror, catching a sight of her reflection opening the cell phone again. She froze and then swore so loudly that she flinched. Thankfully, the house was empty - the help was gone for the day and her daughters were at their grandmother's.

Snapping the phone shut once more, Miranda whispered, "Bloody hell--." Then she scowled at her reflection and added resolutely, "It can not go on like this."

Hastily, she put her coat back on and walked out.

In the taxi she sat, looking straight ahead, clutching the handles of her purse in a death grip. She had no idea what she was going to say. Most likely, she had never gone to a meeting being any more unprepared. And yet, there she was, on her way, knowing for sure only one thing –it (whatever that "it" was) had to stop. Somehow.

"It can not go on like this," she announce as soon as the girl opened the door.

"Miranda?"

"It can not go on like this!" The second time it came out more like a shriek.

"Miranda, not here." The girl glanced around, then stepped aside and motioned her in.

As Miranda walked into the tiny hallway, it occurred to her that there might be someone else in the apartment. She halted, inwardly cursing her own rashness. Out of all the foolish things she could have done… Agitated, Miranda didn't notice that the girl had closed the door and stood barely a step behind her.

But she refused to shiver when Andrea, as if reading her mind, said quietly into her back, "I am alone." Instead, Miranda pursed her lips and went forward.

The living room was just like Miranda remembered it from the last time she was here – small and bare. Boxes of books and papers, lining up the walls, a TV set, sitting on the floor, and a sofa that even under the forgiving light of a flimsy floor lamp next to it looked very much second hand--. Miranda gaze lingered on the sofa, and this time around she did shiver.

Her lips in a painfully thin line then, Miranda marched across the room to the window and turned around.

Andrea stood just off the hallway, leaning on the kitchenette counter. Her outfit - an oversized grey sweatshirt, a pair of undeterminable color sweatpants with stretched knees, and mismatched athletic socks - looked hideous. Miranda opened her mouth to say just that, but closed it again. As bad as Andrea's attire looked, Miranda couldn't quite bring herself to be appalled. Instead, she thought about the ease with which the girl could be divested of the offending clothes, and--.

Miranda hissed a breath in and snapped, "It can not go on like this."

The girl straightened up a bit and said softly, "Miranda, I am not leaving."

"I know!" Miranda shouted, then repeated more calmly, "I know--."

She looked away, and her gaze stumbled over the sofa again. With a huff, Miranda turned to the window.

It was dark outside, and in the lit windows of the house across the narrow backyard she could see people going about their business - eating, watching TV, talking. Could they see her? Would any of them be able to recognize her? Miranda frowned. No, probably not. Still, what was she doing here? Miranda's frown deepened, and she stepped away from the window.

So many years--. So many years--. She was good, so good. Not a mistake, not a slip, not a hint of a doubt. Nothing! And then…

Miranda threw a side glance at the girl. "It can not--," she began once more, but paused, before amending coarsely, "I can not--." She waved her hand between them.

Andrea let go of the counter and stood, her posture rigid, waiting for the end of the sentence. When it didn't come, she asked, "Is this why you are here? To tell me that?"

"No," said Miranda quickly. "Yes."

"Thank you for coming then. I guess," the girl said, and for some reason Miranda felt the urge to clarify.

"Are you capable of understanding the situation?" she began haughty. "I can't deal with this right now." She cleared her throat. "This," she waved her hand between them again, "it's been dangerously disruptive and extremely bothersome."

Andrea cocked her head. The light of the floor lamp didn't quite reach her face, so even squinting Miranda couldn't make out its expression. "I wasn't aware that there has been," the girl also waved her hand between them, "anything at all. Except, of course--"

Andrea, probably, blushed, judging by the way her voice caught right at the end of her remark. Miranda did not look at the sofa again. She absolutely did not. In fact, she did not look at anything at all, but closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When Miranda opened her eyes, she said calmly, "Andrea, I run into you all the time."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do," she confirmed in a tone that brooked no arguments. "And when I do not, I know, I can feel it that you are somewhere around, somewhere close, and I can't afford the distraction."

As Andrea listened, her stance remained stiff.

Miranda moved her purse from one hand to the other. It was getting too warm there. She reached for the top button of her coat, but didn't open it. She was about to leave anyway. Leave, before--. Well, it was time to leave. Miranda made a step forward. "I can't. I simply can't, and that's all."

"I never meant to be--uh--to bother you," the girl said with a barely perceptible sight.

"And that should be my consolation?" Miranda glared. "Is that what I should have used as an excuse when I almost called Donna Diana. I am sure they both would have been thrilled."

"You mean Donna Karan and what's-her-name?" the girl asked hesitantly.

"Diane von Furstenberg!" Miranda was annoyed enough to lower her voice, but suddenly agitated enough to divulge matters, which, under normal circumstances, she would never share with a living sole. "I haven't slept in months! My daughters believe I am been followed! A very nice gentlemen, I've been dating, suggested we took a break in our relationship, so I could decide if I was interested in taking it to the next level. And why wouldn't I be interested?"

Andrea shifted from foot to foot and offered carefully, "I am sorry that it's been this bad for you--."

"Bad? Bad?!" The nerve this girl had! "It's been awful! Horrible! Unspeakable!" Miranda felt like punching something. Or someone.

"So, uh, are you blaming me for, um--?"

"You? No, of course not!" Miranda ground her teeth so that her jaw ached. "How could I?"

"Miranda?"

She still couldn't see Andrea's face clearly, but the way the girl said her name, the way she swayed forward just so, left little doubt as to what was there. Miranda swallowed hard. No. God, no.

"While you are sit here," she made sure the tone was convincingly menacing, "in your ghastly old rags, and pretend that you have nothing to do with what's being happening, I have to go out there and run a magazine, and deal with people who know nothing about doing their jobs, and--"

"I am sorry--" the girl tried to interject, but Miranda wouldn't stop.

"The New York Fashion Week was a disaster. Honestly, how many short-haired models one needs on a runway? One after another – Tuleh, Barcelona, Mastoianni, Alice Roi--."

"Unthinkable--"

"Last week Nigel looked at me suspiciously all afternoon long only because I picked a size four girl for the shoot. She was right for the layout. How could he not see it?"

"I'm sure she was--"

"I can't find an assistant that lasts longer then a month. They are all idiots, each and every one of them--"

"Of course, Miranda--"

"Every time I get in the car at Elias-Clark, I expect to see--uh--I feel like I'm been watched."

"It's awful--"

"I second-guess my own decisions."

"Oh, Miranda--"

"And today I asked Roy to buy The Mirror. From the street stand--." Miranda finally managed to clamp her mouth shut since for a moment she ran out of things to say, which she shouldn't have said in the first place. Hell, _she_ was an idiot.

And to make the matters worse, sometime during her rant she moved closer to the girl and the girl moved closer to her. Now they stood a mere couple of feet away from each other, and Miranda no longer had to guess the expression on the girl's face. Bloody hell, it was suddenly too hot, and too cold, and not enough air in the room--.

"For what it's worth, I can't stop thinking about you too," Andrea whispered.

Miranda swallowed hard again and with an effort ripped her gaze off of the girl's mouth. "Andrea, don't--"

"I read _Runway_ now. From beginning to end," the girl went on. "And everything else, where your name is mentioned."

Did Miranda imagine or they gravitated even closer to each other? "They write rubbish about me."

"That picture of yours, in black Galianno, at The Art in Journalism gala--. I have it. Saved."

"It was a beautiful dress." Had she completely lost her mind? Standing there, barely breathing, practically flash with the girl, carrying on a conversation, which shouldn't had taken place to begin with?

"You looked beautiful in it." The girl's voice quivered. "You always look beautiful."

"Andrea, you can't--. I can't--," Miranda knew she had to stop this, but as her lips slid slowly along Andrea's jaw, almost touching the soft skin, she had no idea how. "We can't--"

"I know," Andrea whispered, and the feeling of the girl's warm puffs of breathes at her temple, sent shivers down Miranda's spine. "I don't want to cause you pain. I just--uh--"

"I know." Her lips brushed the corner of Andrea's mouth. "I know--" Her lips brushed the other corner of the girl's mouth. "Andrea--" Miranda took one shaky breath and kissed the girl.

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**A/N **Thank you all for reading and reviewing.


	6. In the Absence of Cloud Nine part 2

**In the Absence of Cloud Nine (part 2)**

Miranda emerged from the kiss completely breathless. She was also shivering as if she was cold. But she wasn't. She, actually, was hot, and getting hotter, staring at Andrea's face – flushed cheeks, parted moist lips, dazed hooded eyes.

"Drink," Miranda mustered at last, "I need a drink." The words came out raspy. She licked her lips, swallowed, and said, "Water."

"Okay," the girl whispered, but made no move to comply.

That bemused Miranda. "Andrea," she began, but stopped, when she noticed one of her hands clawed into the girl's shoulder and the other – cradling the girl's head. Miranda frowned at her hands, but they remained where they were. She frowned some more with the same result. What the--.

And besides, where was the purse she was just holding?

The question remained unanswered, because Andrea picked that moment to lean forward, murmur something illegible, and attach her lips to the hollow of Miranda's throat. "Sod the purse," Miranda concluded panting, "I'll get another one tomorrow."

The next puzzle surfaced while Miranda was pinning Andrea to the wall. The girl was making delicious half-mewing half-moaning sounds every time Miranda nipped at her neck, while Miranda's hands, buried deep under the girl's sweatshirt, had their way with the girl's breasts.

"Thanks god, I don't have a coat on," Miranda thought, surrendering to the warmth of Andrea's hands on her back as they seemed to brand her skin through a thin fabric of the blouse. Did she even have a coat?

Well. For a brief moment Miranda considered the question. She must've had it, mustn't she? It was still February after all. But then Andrea pulled her closer, and Miranda quickly made up her mind, "Sod the coat. The Closet is full of that crap."

Later, much later Miranda had one more question regarding her clothes. But as she lied, pressed to the back of the sofa by practically naked Andrea, whose one hand was elbow deep between Miranda's thighs and the other holding her in place as she arched and trembled, Miranda knew that questioning the absence of the skirt made very little sense. Much more appropriate, she thought, hooking her leg over Andrea's waist, would be to contemplate how many orgasms it was possible to achieve in one night. Especially, considering she always believed that having two was a great feat.

Her musings, however, were interrupted, when Andrea twisted her fingers just so, moved them once, twice, and Miranda was tumbling, gasping, shaking, falling--.

She took her time before opening her eyes again. When she finally did, she saw the girl looking at her, a strange expression on the lovely face – a mix of wonder, delight, nervousness, and something else, something entirely unfamiliar. Miranda swallowed hard. "Drink. Uh, could you--" she shifted, and Andrea furred her brow.

"Um--"

"Drink," repeated Miranda and closed her eyes, but not before seeing Andrea's tentative smile.

"Sure. Okay." The girl lingered a bit, then gave her a kiss on the cheek, carefully detached different parts of her body from Miranda's, and got up. When Miranda opened her eyes once more, she saw the girl still standing next to the sofa, looking at her as if trying to commit the image of Miranda to the deepest memory.

Miranda refused to shiver. Instead, she arched a brow.

"Right," Andre blushed and tuned away.

Miranda waited until the girl made it to the kitchenette before getting up and going to the bathroom.

She closed the door tightly and took a deep breath – this was absolutely _not_ what she had in mind coming to see Andrea. Or was it? Miranda exhaled. Well--.

For a long moment she studied her face in a little mirror – the ugly smudges of destroyed make-up, painfully swollen lips, unnaturally burning cheeks. And yet, as revolting as the sight was, for Miranda the worst was to see her own eyes just then – fervently bright, strangely unguarded. Bloody hell--

When Miranda walked out of the bathroom, she found Andrea standing in the middle of the kitchenette, examining a small green bottle in her hands. The girl didn't notice her right way. However, before Miranda had a chance to say anything, Andrea looked up and whispered, "Miranda." And then she smiled.

Miranda swallowed hard – she wasn't prepared to the warmth of that smile. She busied herself with the robe that she borrowed in the bathroom, pulling it tighter around her body, straightening the hem, retying the belt --.

"I didn't know what you wanted," she heard Andrea and had no choice but look at the girl. "I didn't know--," Andrea repeated, trailing off under Miranda's stare.

God, what was that on her face that made the girl gape at her like that? All she did in the bathroom was removed the ruined make-up. She didn't get a Botox or some such nonsense, for crying out loud. With a huff, Miranda sat on a high stool at the counter and arched a brow, "Well?"

The girl blushed, "Um--"

Miranda blinked, but kept looking at Andrea's face. It was only slightly easier than to gawk at the girl's hideous t-shirt, which was just long enough to cover the underwear. Did she even put the underwear back on? Miranda cleared her throat and said, "How long do you think it may take you to procure a drink?"

"Oh." The girl's blush spread. "I--. Would you like tea or coffee?"

"No. Thank you. Just water."

"Oh," the girl said again and reached for a mug. The t-shirt rode up. There was no underwear. Miranda swore inwardly.

Andrea put a mug on the counter. "I don't have any bottled water, except for--" She glanced at the green bottle in her hand.

Miranda squinted at it too. "Well? If it is San Pellegrino, it would do nicely."

"It is, ah," the girl fidgeted.

"Andrea, are you afraid to admit that you have managed to acquire some taste?"

"No, it's just--" The girl looked at the bottle again and suddenly asked, "Do you know if there is usually an expiration date for this water?"

"An expiration date? When did you buy it?"

"Ah. A while ago. Ah. Last May."

"Last May?" Miranda glanced at the girl. "Why would you keep it this long?" However, before she finished asking her question, Miranda knew the answer. Well. She cleared her throat yet again and uttered stiffly, "I'll drink it. It should be fine."

Her ears bright red then, Andrea hurried to fill the mug and move it closer to Miranda, who picked it up and, trying not to show her disapproval of the choice of crockery, took a couple of long satisfying mouthfuls. Still, Miranda's voice sounded rough, when she said, "There should be enough for both of us," and pointed at the bottle.

Andrea's smile made her shiver, and when the girl went for the second mug Miranda had to swear twice. It didn't help at all, because her eyes remained glued to the sight, uncovered by the riding up t-shirt.

Miranda managed to keep herself on the stool long enough to let the girl drink some water. But as soon as Andrea's mug touched the counter, Miranda was up.

"The hell with it," she thought, going around the counter. "I want this," she added as her trembling hands dove under Andrea's t-shirt. "I need--" The girl moaned, hungrily kissing her face, neck, shoulders. "this--"

In the tiny apartment their passage from the kitchenette to the bedroom took over an hour. In the wake of that slow and bumpy journey there was a broken mug, a knocked down stool, a couple of overturned boxes with papers spewed all over the floor, thrown around and badly used articles of clothing, some of which were probably damaged beyond repair (Miranda distinctly remembered at one point wiping her wet hands with a sleeve of her own coat that at the time served them as a spread).

Nothing even remotely similar to this ever happened to Miranda. And yet, lying naked in a strange bed, after trashing Andrea's apartment and destroying most of her own clothing, Miranda felt very much at ease. In fact, with Andrea's head on her shoulder and the girl's limbs wrapped around her, she never felt better.

If only she'd known that lesbian sex was that good--. She smiled.

"Did you, um, enjoy, um--?" Andrea asked into her shoulder.

Miranda wanted to roll her eyes. How many orgasms did it take to appease the irrational insecurities? She could not move a muscle as it was.

Andrea raised her head and looked at her. "Wrong question?" She smiled hesitantly before continuing. "But, you know, last time after you left, I-- I kept thinking that I was crap in bed, that if only I'd done better--"

Miranda snorted. "Andrea, I don't believe your skill is our problem." She took a deep breath and thought if this would be the right time to get up.

"May be, but-- You had others-- You had Michelle, and I--" Silly girl, she was chewing on her lip, carefully examining the pattern on the pillow case.

Miranda really had no desire and saw no need to explain anything. But surprisingly, she found herself doing just that. "Firstly, I did not have 'others'." With a tip of her finger she traced Andrea's jaw line, her lips. "There was only one, if we are talking, as I believe we are, about my associations with women. Secondly, Michelle was," she sighed, "she was just someone I knew a very long time ago."

Andrea was watching her, eagerly awaiting every word.

Well, there was no way around it, and so, running her hand slowly through the girl's short dark strands, Miranda continued. "We both were starting out in fashion journalism. Young. Free. It was in Paris."

"You loved her?"

Miranda sighed again. "I don't know. Does it matter?" She shrugged. "It couldn't work. More than anything in the world Michelle wanted a husband with a manor in the country, children, winter vacations in St. Moritz, and--"

"And you?"

"And I wanted to run a fashion magazine. We both concentrated on our pursuits and we both achieved what we set to achieve. That's all." Miranda closed her eyes. This was probably a good moment to say that she was leaving.

"So, um, do you, um, still see her?" She felt Andrea's head back on her shoulder and instinctively pulled her closer.

"Why would I?"

"Um--"

"Andrea," her hand moved to stroke the girl's back, "I lead a very public life. I simply can't afford such, uh, indiscretions." Speaking of which, why was she still in this bed? And why, for god sake's, couldn't she stop holding on to the girl?

"But do you want to see her?"

"No!" Miranda answered right away. "No."

Andrea noticeably relaxed in her arms. "Good," she murmured, and, after squirming a little searching for more comfortable position, sighed. "Good."

There was nothing good about the situation, Miranda suddenly thought. Trust the girl to completely ignore "I can't afford indiscretions" part. Didn't she understand that it concerned her as much as it did Michelle? And didn't she hear Miranda's "we can't do this" announcement? Well, the later, of course, turned rather irrelevant in the light of events of this evening. Still, this craziness had to stop. "Andrea."

The girl mumbled something and squirmed even closer.

"Andrea." Miranda opened her eyes and patted the girl's shoulder. "Andrea?" The only response she got was the girl's deep, even breathing. Oh, great. What was she going to do now?

Miranda frowned. Should she wake up the girl or simply leave and call her later? Or write her a note? Or…

When Miranda opened her eyes the next time, a thin ribbon of daylight sneaked into the room through slightly parted curtains and was warming a pillow near her cheek. Feeling unusually content, Miranda tried to stretch, and then the realization hit her – a wrong room, a wrong pillow, a wrong bed. The feeling of contentment instantaneously forgotten, she tensed, as if getting ready to fight. But as she slowly turned to look at her companion, whose back was currently molded into the curves of her side, Miranda began to panic.

Oh, hell--

Oh, hell!

It took her several long moments to calm down enough to be able to assess the situation at hand. When she finally did, she knew right away what she had to do.

With utmost care Miranda crawled out of the bed and crept to the door. There she stopped and looked back. She watched a blanket-covered shoulder rhythmical rise and fall, until there was absolutely no doubt that Andrea was still asleep, before heading to the living room.

Tiptoeing around, Miranda quickly collected her belongings, or what was left of them (like her ripped blouse) anyway. Bur what started as a mad dash, soon slowed down. Miranda paused several times, listening to the sounds that she thought she heard coming from the bedroom, and, when she went to the bathroom to clean up and get dressed, for the first few minutes she just stood there, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

When Miranda returned to the living room to get her coat (which, thankfully, didn't appear too sullied, except for some suspicious marks on the right sleeve), she lingered, checking the content of her purse, adjusting and readjusting her scarf, putting on and taking of the gloves.

Finally Miranda glanced in the direction of the bedroom for the last time, pivoted on her heels, and headed out. Only--.

Only--.

Only she never made it to the door. As she passed the kitchenette, a small green bottle, left on the counter, caught her eye. Miranda's gait faltered. No. She looked away. No. Then she stopped and slowly, very slowly, turned back to look at the bottle.

Her legs, as if she'd been running for miles, suddenly weak and weary, Miranda slumped against the wall. No. No! She refused to be roped into -- into this. This was madness. This was idiocy. This was--.

Miranda straightened up, pursed her lips, and stomped back to the room. She threw her coat and her bag on the sofa, with a bang deposited the green bottle into the trash and a survived mug into the sink, and sat primly at the kitchenette counter. Moments later she heard a soft "Miranda?" coming from the bedroom.

The girl walked into a living room and exclaimed, "You are here."

Miranda didn't turn to look at her. "Obviously."

"I thought you, uh, left," Andrea murmured.

"I'm not planning on being here all day, but I can be persuaded to stay for a cup of tea." She glanced over the shoulder at the girl. "Do you have any?"

Andrea's hand flew to her face to cover a sob, and Miranda quickly looked away, suddenly feeling peculiar – apprehensive and calm at the same time. While she pondered over it, she heard soft footprints behind her, and then a pair of long arms wrapped around her and hot puffs of a whisper burned her ear, "Anything for you, Miranda. Anything."

She shivered, but mustered a bit of a bite, when she said, "I hope that with the tea you can provide something more seemly than those awful mugs. I'd appreciate it very much." In response there was a soft, warm laughter. Miranda held on only for a moment before allowing herself a real smile. This was worth it. Andrea was worth it. That's all.

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**Fin.**

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**A/N **Thank you all for reading and reviewing.

I know that a lot of people didn't like the ending of the first story ("Five Encounters"). Hope, you like this ending better. And yet, I have to tell you that, while I consider the "Encounters" a story of "_what could have happened_," this story is definitely "_what could have never happened in a million years, but I really-really wanted a happy ending, so I did my best to bring the girls together_."


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